Sēo Rīc Unryhtra Dǣda
by MisterKhact
Summary: General Miltiades seeks the Sword of Martin as well as the fabled celestial rock the sword was forged from. His army is strong and his navy stronger. How will these new visitors fare against such an opponent? Especially when they have already fought each other before.
1. Prologue

Sēo Rīc Unryhtra Dǣda

MisterKhact

Prologue

"Ни шагу назад!"

"В атаку! За Родину!"

"УРА!"

The Red Army charged headlong over the crumbling ruins, roaring their guttural cries in fury. They poured headlong into the snowy plaza, kicking up a flurry of dirt and snow.

"УРА!" They yelled again, louder than ever. The massive wave of Russian soldiers flowed onward and showed no signs of hesitation.

The Wehrmacht occupied masonry buildings erupted with muzzle flares. German machine guns spat hails of lead through their thunderous staccatos. The panzers stationed at the base roared with life; every shot shook the vehicle free of snow and dust. Bullets and explosive shells slammed into the rushing column of the Red Army, a choir of flesh impacts echoed through the air. Blood and bones spattered around the battlefield like confetti. Dirt and stone around them exploded into haze of smoke and rubble. And yet with all the destruction and horror, the Russians still bravely pressed on, ignoring and running over the bodies of their fallen brothers. Broken husks of tanks and vehicles of previous battles littered the devastated battleground. The large decorated central fountain had long been destroyed, shattered by days of fierce fighting.

The Russians did not falter against the German fortifications, for they had the spirit and strength of a thousand men. They fight for their loved ones. They fight for their brothers. And they fight for their country. They fight to kill every single one of those fascist dogs that dared to kill their very people upon their own soil.

Above the ruins of a building, a Red soldier waved the iconic red flag of the Soviet Union; its bright red colors for all to see its glory. He shouted and roared for the glory of the Motherland, cheering on his fellow brothers who risked their lives to protect the land of the Soviet Union.

"Победа будет за нами! Смерть Фашистам!"

The thundering roars of the Luftwaffe flew over the ruined city of Stalingrad, releasing a stormy hail of devastating bombs. They detonated in a fiery blast, engulfing buildings with fire and stone. The shockwave sent many soldiers falling on their backs and clutching their chests. Those who were not affected still rushed on, attaching bayonets on their Mosin-Nagants. The Russian stampede rushed closer, bullets and shells flying over their heads. Artillery fired upon the plaza, tearing apart bodies, masonries, and snow. The Russians suffered heavy casualties, the bodies of the fallen piling up behind them, but still pressed on, undeterred and unforgiving. An endless wave of Russian soldiers continued to flow from the hill, as if the entire force of the Red Army gathered at this very place to fight. They will not allow those fascist to capture what they have left of the city.

"Убейте фашистов!" The Russians cried out, "За Родину! За Сталина!"

"УРА!" They roared once again.

Oberfeldwebel Hans Schmidt of the 4th Panzer Army peered through his binoculars, staring in awe at the charging soldiers of the Red Army. He admired their courage to face impeding death under the storm of bullets. The stuttering barks of MG-34s slew the advancing rows of Russians, spent cartilages raining down upon the ground like a metallic waterfall. The engines of the Panzerkampfwagen IV rumbled loudly like a mighty bomb, hammering the eardrums of the crewmembers inside and those situated around them. Hans lowered his binoculars to adjust the lenses, just before a bullet whizzed by inches from his head. By instinct, he ducked down into the confines of his panzer and slammed the commander copula shut, a hail of bullets ricocheting off the steel surface.

"Overfeltwebel! The Russians are advancing with their tanks!" Their driver, Gefreiter Karl Töpfer, yelled amidst the chaos. A young man with a sharp wit, though panics all too often. He is loyal both to Schmidt and the Nazi Party. As Hitler and his political machine were often look down upon in the eyes of the Wehrmacht, Karl wasn't the most popular soldier around. Schmidt still kept him as his crew member for his unmatched driving ability.

"Not their damn tanks again!" Remarked the radio operator, Obergefreiter Ernst Maurer, "We narrowly won the last fight!"

Ernst was well known among his close friends as being a sarcastic joker, even at the face of death.

"Radio them for more reinforcements. We won't hold this line for long." Schmidt spoke to Ernst though his headset.

"Yes sir, Oberfeldwebel!" He replied, before his gun ran empty.

"Damn!" Ernst cursed. He tore out the empty magazine from the gun and inserted a new one. He slammed down the magazine catch and pulled back the lever. Satisfied, Ernst turned his attention to the radio. He dialed and fumbled around the equipment until he received a signal.

"We need armored reinforcements at the Central Plaza. I repeat, we need armored reinforcements at the Central Plaza. We cannot hold this area for much longer. Enemy tanks approaching our positions."

Schmidt peered through the metal slit and watched in surprise and fear. Three Russian T-34s rolled down the rubble hill, no doubt his comrades following right behind the hill of rubble. No one in the Wehrmacht army would have suspected the Russians to make a comeback with terrifying tanks of their own.

Gefreiter Hermann Schulze, the panzer gunner, rotated his turret, a shower of bullets bouncing off its protective armor. He took aim at one of those T-34s, steadying his crosshair on the tank. The Russian T-34 continued until it halted at the edge of the plaza, turning its turret at them as well.

"On my word," Schmidt spoke to the gunner.

"Yes sir, Oberfeldwebel," Hermann replied.

_Now or never._ Schmidt thought with anxiety.

"Fire!"

The 7.5 cm barrel braced against the recoil, sending the shell hurdling towards the tank.

*ping*

The shell bounced uselessly off its cursed sloped armor. Schmidt's heart sank with dread. Not a second later, the Russian tank returned fire, the shell slamming into the hull of the Panzer like the hammer of Thor. The armored vehicle rocked back against the blow, the sound of the unbearable impact crushed everyone ears. Fortunately for the crew inside, the round failed to penetrate the steel hull. The loader, Gefreiter Otto Großer, shook his head from disorientation and shoved a new shell into the barrel.

"Loaded!"

Hermann readjusted his sights again, bearing his crosshair on the Russian tank turret.

"Fire!" Schmidt yelled.

The cannon erupted into thunder. The shell flew across the ruined battlefield and slipped between the T-34's hull and the turret. The round impacted the ammo cache inside and exploded into a fiery fireball, launching the turret in the air before crashing back down. The flames burned all nearby soldiers who stood too near.

_Perfect hit._ Schmidt smiled to himself.

* * *

"Not a step back!"

"Into the fight! For the Motherland!"

"URA!"

Sergey Ivanov ran towards the German line, a PPSH-41 held in his chilly hands. His steel helmet buckled against his head. An artillery round slammed into a nearby ruin, crumbling down in a fog of plaster and snow. A storm of bullets zipped over his head, causing Sergey's heart to stop. Fellow soldiers died around him, screaming and flopping in pain. He had orders to charge into the fight, no matter the cost.

"URA!" Everyone yelled again. Even with chaos exploding all around them, their spirits still held much energy.

The block ahead of the plaza was ripe of German fortifications. Muzzle flashes of their damned machine guns erupted from one of the many windows; the German tanks at the foot of the block fired salvos at the advancing Red Army. Sergey kicked up dirt and fell behind a short stone wall, just as a shell landed in a small shop behind him. It exploded spectacularly into a shower of splinters and stone. Bullets chipped away at the edge of the wall like a ravenous beast.

"Kill the fascists!" A group behind him yelled, "For the Motherland! For Stalin!"

"URA!" Everyone yelled in unison.

Three T-34s rolled over a nearby hill, bullets ricocheting of its slope armor. Sergey, crawling on the dirt, saw a German tank taking aim at their tank. Its cannon roared, spitting out smoke and flame. It braced for impact, the shell bouncing off its sloped armor, and fell into the ground with a heavy thump. It was their turn to fire. The T-34 cannon spat a shell at high velocity, punching the German tank like a boot to the head. It rocked back and forth, incredibly disoriented by the impact. As it settled, the damaged panzer its gun fired once again. Sergey watched in complete horror as their T-34 erupted into a fireball of death, burning anyone that stood near. He instinctively rammed his head into the ground, bullets whizzing around his head like an angry swarm of bees. Inch by inch, he crawled in the blood-soaked snow of the plaza. Others behind him followed suit. German artillery hammered the battered ground; Dirt and snow exploded around Sergey's face as he slowly came closer to the fortifications. Brown and red snow flew into Sergey's eyes, irritating them to no end. His eyes welled up with tears as he continued to crawl towards death's door. The voices of Wehrmacht soldiers drew near, shouting and yelling in fear and panic.

"Scheiße! Mehrere Russische Panzer vorrücken über den Hügel!" One of them exclaimed, pointing at the opposite horizon.

"Zurückziehen! zurück! Los! Los!" He heard another German yell. The soldiers started to kick up dirt as they ran back into the building.

Sergey looked over his shoulder and what he saw lifted his hopes up. Twenty T-34s and two KV-1s rolled over the hill, firing their cannons on the move.

"URA!" A soldier yelled, "Forward, Comrades!"

The reinforcements gave Sergey a sudden surge of hope, a boost of adrenaline pulsing in his veins. The German fortifications began to crumble, unrelenting Russian firepower annihilating the German positions. A panzer nearby erupted into flame; its crewmembers screamed in agony as they jumped out of their vehicle, rolling around in the snow. The panzer ahead of Sergei had its main gun shot to hell, the barrel clearly bent and disfigured. The tank was unusually silent for it's engine died from a hit to the rear.

Now's his chance, he thought.

He took cover and hid below the trench as the panzer machine gun fired away. He and a few other soldiers climbed over the side of the tank, hearing its panicked crewmembers inside.

"Oberfeldwebel! Was machen wir? Sie sind überall!"

Sergey ripped a grenade off his shirt, primed and ready.

* * *

"УРА! Вперёд, Товарищи!"

"Overfeldwebel! What do we do? They are everywhere!" Karl yelled in panic.

Schmidt sat in silence, darting his eyes everywhere like a rubber ball. The main gun was damaged beyond recognition and the steel hull began to fall apart under repeated impacts. Their engine was absolutely dead; stuck in its place like a massive sitting target. Morale was pitifully low for everyone, the screams of fellow Germans piercing their very ears. They had this position, but Stalin's willingness to throw thousands of Russian lives at the front line pushed them over the edge. They were completely overwhelmed, surrounded by all sides of the plaza. Despite heavy losses, soldiers of the Red Army still clambered over the rubble hill. Schmidt heard multiple clamors up above his turret, no doubt Russian soldiers trying to breach into their tank. He readied his Parabellum Luger, chambering a round into the barrel. Just before the hatch was pried open, the tank exploded.

Five Russian T-34s took aim at that very tank, ignoring fellow allies that climbed over it. They fired in unison, turning the German tank into a ball of flame and shrapnel. Many believed they had died fighting for their country. But for them, Schmidt, Sergey, and their fellow soldiers, will see much more than death itself.


	2. Chapter 1: Mossflower

Chapter One: Mossflower

MisterKhact

A lone beast stood upon the ramparts of the ancient abbey of Redwall, its walls aged with ancient history long gone by. Built after the fall of Kotir, Redwall Abbey stood proudly over the forest of Mossflower, a haven for all goodbeasts and travelers alike. It has held a firm stand against countless hoards of vermin and provided shelter for those who escaped their grasps. A flurry of green vines climbed up the walls and abbey, reaching up towards the sun. The sun sat on the horizon as the day was still early. A golden yellow shroud enveloped the sun, slowly dissipating as it floated high into the clear blue skies.

A brown mouse stood upon the old red walls. Nobeast else was there beside him, as they all were mostly asleep at this time of day. Daedalus the Craftmouse gazed over the horizon; his green robes gently blowing in the wind. Piles of loose leaves drifted across the dirt road, running besides the foot of the abbey gate. Daedalus took a deep breath, admiring the gleaming sunrise inching slowly into the sky. The birds are beginning to wake and sing their morning song.

It is unusual for him to be up this early. Almost every other day, he would lock himself in his gloomy candle lit room; his desk flooded with endless amounts of projects. They range from a simple dibbun's toy to a complex set of winches and pulleys. Perhaps one day, he'll plan to make the abbey gate crack operated, though he lacks the necessary metal parts to do. Regular wood from the woods will deteriorate far too quickly. Of course, he'll have somebeast berating him how he should take up some other useful hobby instead of building silly contraptions of use to no one at all. Daedalus and his friends beg to differ. Abbess Irene, although impressed with his work, worries constantly about his "unsocial activities". He could almost remember that conversation he had a few seasons ago.

_"Think about it Abbess Irene!" Daedalus said to her, "This could make opening and closing the gate far less of a hassle!"_

_"I can see the use for it," she replied, crossing her arms, "But where will we gather metal for your 'gears'? Who will volunteer to travel far to Salamandastron and retrieve the materials for you? Our Abbeybeasts aren't exactly warriors to take on bandits and vermin out there."_

_"But my friends might go." He replied._

_"'Might go' is different from 'will go'. They may be your friends, but it doesn't mean they'll risk their lives outside the abbey for your little fetch quest." Irene sighed, "Perhaps you should do something within your reach for now."_

_"But what else should I do?" Daedalus asked, pleading with Irene, "I had this all planed out!" _

_"You know perfectly well what I said!" She exclaimed, "I'm not risking beasts out there over some pieces of metal."_

_Daedalus curled his lips with frustration before looking down in defeat, "Fine, I'll put this project away for another time."_

_"Good. Just spend more time outside or walk around the abbey halls." Irene looked at him, "Anywhere but that ghastly place you call a workroom."_

_"What about the recorder?" He objected, "He sits in his gloomy old room all day long writing and scribbling!"_

_She sighed heavily and gave him a hard stare, "He's a recorder, Daedalus. You should know better than that."_

Daedalus contemplated before shaking his head.

_Maybe she's right after all._ He thought.

But for once, maybe he could savor the peaceful morning. Daedalus smiled again when the birds in the trees sang their cheery tunes. Ears twitching, Daedalus heard rapid footsteps behind him. He turned his head around to see a familiar mousemaid running towards him. What is she doing here in this time of day?

"Brother Daedalus! Brother Daedalus! Those accursed dibbuns are at it again!" She screeched into a halt and paused for breath, "You could not believe what they have done this morning!"

"What did they do now Sister Eleni?"

"What did they do?" She exclaimed in total anger, rubbing against her head in fury, "They spilt ink into the kitchen caldron! We were supposed to have it done for Friar Montague by this hour! Do you know how long it took us to…" Eleni paused, gathering her breath, "If I ever get my hands on those little demons, I'll…" She grasped the air, pretending to physically ring some small dibbun necks.

"Sister, please! Be calm!" He lowered his hands on her shoulders, "Getting irate will get you nowhere."

Eleni rubbed her temples and took several deep breaths.

"Yes, yes, you're right," She turned and looked over to the horizon, "I'm just tired of those mischievous dibbuns ransacking the Abby."

Daedalus smiled, "We were all dubbins one, remember? Do you remember that time when you found your mother's …"

"If you dare bring this up again, I'll toss you over the wall and the rest of your little projects."

Daedalus laughed, "Alright young mousemaid, not a word from me again!"

"Humph! Since you are of no help, I'll consult Abbess Irene instead!" She fumed.

Eleni shuffled down the ramparts, leaving behind a trail of frustration and embarrassment.

Daedalus turned back to the horizon, shaking his head in amusement.

"Still young, but very responsible." He said to himself.

At the corner of his eye, he saw a bright flash of light emanating from the woods. Daedalus narrowed his eyes as he looked at the tree line. He saw a flock of birds desperately fleeing into the sky. He arched his eyebrows in confusion when he saw a very faint white mist approaching him. As it hit, his chest heaved backwards with pain as the mist flowed through the abbey. A sudden crack of thunder intruded the abbey grounds; birds perched along the ramparts took off in complete terror. He slammed his ears shut with his paws. Daedalus could hear the abbey's windows shatter through his fingers. The deafening sound still pounded against his eardrums. Daedalus looked up in the sky and expected a large looming storm cloud. But there was nothing, not a cloud in sight.

_Where did that deafening sound come from? Was it from that flash of light I saw? _He thought. Daedalus slowly stood up when Eleni's voice behind him caught his attention.

"Brother Daedalus! Help me calm the dibbuns!" Eleni cried out, waving at Daedalus up on the ramparts.

_And just the moment before she berated those very dibbuns._ He mused.

"I'm not getting any younger you know! Just give me a moment." He called back.

If the sudden thunder or shattered glass didn't wake anybeast up, the wails of dibbuns would.

Daedalus ran down the ramparts in a hurry. He sprinted down the pathway, bits of pebbles slipping into his sandals. He followed Eleni across Redwall's vast grass fields and towards the dining hall. Daedalus could hear the dibbuns' wails growing louder with each step. Heaving with exhaustion, Daedalus paused at the door to gather his breath. Eleni still had the energy to run past him. The dibbuns were huddled together at the center of the dining hall, papers filled with crude drawings littered the ground. Their ear-piercing wails waking everybeast within range. Stumbling out of the kitchen, an ottermaid covered her ears in annoyance.

"What in te blazes is goin' on 'ere? Why are te dubbins wailin' at tis time o' day?" Daphne shouted, grinding her teeth.

"Did you hear the thunder?" Daedalus spoke over the wails.

"If by thundr' ya mean te dubbins, then ye' I 'eard te thundr'!" The ottermaid complained.

More abbeybeasts appeared from the surrounding hallways. They knelt down to comfort the crying dibbuns. They did everything they could to calm them down. Some whispered to each other, wondering what happened outside to cause such a thunderous roar. At last, the dibbuns fell quiet from their mother's soothing voice. A rather heavy footstep sounded behind, causing some beasts too look before rolling their eyes. The large mouse jogged from the hallway, drawn by all the commotion.

"What has happened here?"He panicked, "Has my kitchen been ruined?"

"There was a loud bang outside the abbey, Friar Montague!" One of the mousemaids spoke up, "It gave the dibbuns a tremendous fright!"

"But what about my kitchen?" He asked again.

Without waiting for an answer, the fat mouse darted to the kitchen, much to everybeast's annoyance. They all knew of his behavior. If he wasn't an excellent cook, he would have been kicked out of the Abbey seasons ago.

Everybeast fell quiet, as heavy distinctive footsteps filled the dining hall. Out of the door stood a large badger, her fur covered in black with a single white stripe.

"Is anybeast alright?" Her voice roared, echoing throughout the room.

"Yes Amelia," Eleni replied, "The sudden thunder scared them out of their wits."

Amelia knelt over a small dubbin. He was small otter, twelve seasons old. His eyes welled up with tears. He slowly eased when he saw the face of a caring badger.

"Tell me, little dubbin. What unsettled you?" She softly spoke.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Me an' my fr'ends were playin' 'n de kitch'n," He wiped a tear from his eye, "When we all 'eard a big roar outsid' de abb'y."

Amelia smiled, "Now, now, little one. There's nothing to be afraid of. We abbeybeasts can take care of whatever scared you."

"Unless that thing eats us first!" Daphne chirped.

The badger gave her a death glare. Daphne zipped her mouth shut and immediately looked away. Amelia turned back to the baby otter.

"You take no heed from her, you understand?" Amelia's voice slightly rose, but began to speak softly again, "Now, let's get you and your friends to a safe and quiet place."

All abbeybeasts knew of the badger's fierce temper, especially one who moved here from Salamandastron seasons ago. Amelia and a few mousemaids escorted the dubbins out the dining hall. A few ottermaids followed them behind their tail. Other abbeybeasts began to look for bags to collect those glass shards. When all was quiet once more, Eleni and Daedalus breathed a sigh of relief.

Returning back to their morning routine, everybeast left the dining hall as quickly as they ran in. Eleni dusted her dress from dust but froze at the voice of Friar Montague.

"Eleni!" He yelled, "Come here this instant!"

Daedalus strode over to Eleni and whispered in her ear.

"I think you better tell him," he said, "The dibbuns suffered enough for one day."

Eleni sighed. Daedalus followed her as she walked slowly into the kitchen.

"What is this?" Friar Montague bellowed, pointing at the caldron, "Why does the morning feast taste foul?"

"Urm.." Eleni muttered, "I accidently spilt ink in the food, sire."

"And how, may I ask, have you spilt ink into the food?" He said in a low tone of voice, annoyed at such clumsiness.

"I uh," she scratched her head, "was trying to get more ink for Vestigium for him to write records and scrolls. I decided to take a short cut through here."

"Go on." Friar Montague leaned against a table.

"The loud bang you just heard?" Eleni continued, "It startled me greatly. I jumped in fright and managed to knock ink into the caldron."

Friar Montague stared at her for a good minute. Finally, he sighed.

"I suppose accidents do happen," he looked over the caldron, "A costly one at that."

Friar Montague stood up.

"But as punishment for your carelessness, young mouse, you will be charged with cleaning up the kitchen mess for the entire week, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sire." Eleni muttered.

"Good." He pointed at the caldron, "You may get started now."

"Yes sire." She nodded.

Friar Montague sighed again.

"I will need to inform Abbess Irene that the morning feast will be delayed until your 'accident' can be resolved." He walked out of the kitchen, his head fuming with frustration.

Daedalus decided it was now the best time to enter. He stood in front of Eleni as she was preparing to clean out the caldron.

"The git," she muttered.

"Did you know what caused the thunder?" Daedalus asked, tapping her shoulder.

"Do you really think it's the best time to discuss this now?" She glared.

_I guess not._ He thought.

* * *

Hundreds of ships sat on the shore of the eastern sea, their sails folded and their occupants out. Each ship carried the flag of its origin. The flag was blue with a crisscross pattern of white and gold. The middle held a white stylized font of "RĪC" with golden borders, encased in a blue oval in golden trim. Beasts of all races, from otters and mice, to stoats and weasels, walked to and fro, unloading supplies from the ship's cargo hold. The sound of the bonfire crackled through the air. Several beasts surrounded it like a moth to a flame. A row of iron pots surrounded the fire, boiling from immense heat. An otter in rough leather armor and dirty rags stirred the contents with a wooden ladle. He then dumped more bird meat inside before closing the rusty lid. The air began to smell of greasy meat and bone. Yet this bonfire is one of dozens in the camp, filled to the brim with hundreds of thousands of tents.

At the edge of the camp was where all the tents began to turn dirty and pitiful. Here, beasts wore only rags and crude armor. A small crowd gathered at a small clearing, steel clashed with steel as two beasts fought each other, strafing in a full circle. One was an orange red ferret in polished steel armor. He stood with a stance that of a professional swordsbeast. The other was a rather large weasel, grey in color, wears common clothing and carried a shield and spear. The small crowd around them chanted and pounded.

"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!" They yelled, pounding their shields with rhythm.

The two combatants stared at each other; their weapons stained with blood and dirt. Their furred faces were drenched in sweat.

"Come on," The red weasel nonchalantly said, grinning from ear to ear at the large gray weasel, "We both know the outcome of this little fight here, eh?"

The large weasel scoffed, raising his spear above his shoulders.

"You may have the helm at a paw's length, but can you fight from a distance?" The grey weasel tried his luck, throwing his spear at his opponent. His eyes widened as the ferret sidestepped to the left and chuckled.

"Is this the sole reason why you want to fight me?" The ferret held back a snicker, "It's a pity your brain is found by your crotch where you spend most of your lonely time with."

The ferret raced towards his opponent with professionalism as he ran his sword towards the weasel's chest. His reflexes were faster than his brain could register, as the sword ran deeper into his lungs. His opponent in steel armor withdrew his blood drenched sword, grinding against the weasel's ribcage. He clutched his chest; his eyes frozen with terror. He stood for a moment, before collapsing lifelessly on the ground. The crowd howled and cheered. Their fists banged their shields again in unison as they chanted his name.

"Ensis! Ensis! Ensis!"

Ensis turned towards his little ensemble of ragged hooligans and bowed.

"Please! Please!" The ferret tried to calm the roaring crowd, "You beasts are far too kind."

His ears perked at a faint voice growing louder.

"Out of the way idiots! The message from the General must be delivered!"

Upon the word of the General, beasts began to back away, carving a path towards the red ferret. A small rat scurried towards Ensis like a fish in a river and tried to draw the ferret's attention by waving his arms."

"Sir Ensis! Sir Ensis! General Miltiades wants you present in his tent now!"

The smiling red ferret turned to his messenger, slipping his bloodied sword back on his hilt.

"Did he now?" He asked, raising his eyebrows, "What of it?"

"He only asked of me to bring you to him."

Ensis cranked his head back towards the weasel's large body lying on the ground.

"Get somebeast here to clean up the mess." The ferret ordered the messenger. He began to walk out the crowded arena, not bothering to make eye contact anymore.

"Yes sire," the messenger bowed and began barking orders.

Ensis the swordbeast made his way across the busy camp, pushing anybeast down to the dirt if they dared to stand in his path. Others were attentive enough to see the ferret and wisely backed away. As Ensis traveled deeper into the camp, the scenery around him changed as well. Crudely made tents were slowly replaced by official looking ones. Beasts no longer wore rags and poor armor, arming themselves with crude weapons of war. These are the true soldiers of the King's Navy and Army. They all wore quality steel and mail armor and tempered steel swords and spears on their hilts. The disciplined soldiers saluted as the well respected and feared swordsbeast walked past them.

After much walking, Ensis arrived at the general's tent, with the Kingdom's colors flying above it. Two of his guardbeasts stood at the entrance as the ferret approached.

"For the king and his kingdom." The guards saluted, retracting their spears for his entry.

"For the king and his kingdom." Ensis saluted back.

It was not as dark as one would expect in a tent, as the sunlight still caused the tent's cloth to glow a mild white. On the desk laid a map of all known locations of the land of Mossflower, including Salamandastron at the far west and Redwall Abbey right in the middle. Red lines, crosses, and circles were drawn across the map, dictating the direction the army will travel, camp, or attack.

"General!" Ensis stood still in front of Miltiades and saluted, "You require my presence?"

"Yes," he confirmed, "Yes, I did."

The dark grayish brown mouse dressed in light blue royal garments, decorated with golden trims, looked up at the red ferret.

"But before we continue, I need to ask you a minor question. One I'm sure you'll have no problem answering," he raised an eyebrow at the swordsbeast, "Care to explain to me why I have a few of my own soldiers dying at the beach with no enemies around?"

Ensis gracefully bowed, "There were several small problems I had to deal with."

Miltiades' eyes narrowed, glancing at the blood splatters on the ferret's armor.

"I know how you operate. Which beasts from which battalion have you slain?"

"I believe they were from the fodder battalion. The late beast a few moments ago only wore ragged pants and armed himself with only a crude spear and shield."

Miltiades sighed heavily, "You know well that I can't have my own beasts dying, even from that battalion."

"My apologi-"

The mouse held up his paw, "I am not _finished_ yet Ensis."

The ferret slammed his mouth shut.

"This expedition cannot fail as the king required. I must not have any of my units die before we even set foot across this land." The mouse pointed at him, "You do well to remember that." The mouse continued on.

"Usually such actions will be seen as traitorous and condemned to the punishment of death."

Ensis stiffened, fearing the worst.

"But you are one of the best swordsbeast his Majesty has to offer." Miltiades reasoned.

"At other occasions, a high ranking officer such as yourself killing a few beasts from the fodder battalion can be…. turned the other way," He gestured with his hands to make a point, "But as I said before, this mission is too important to fail. I need any able bodied beasts alive and well throughout this entire expedition for it to succeed."

Miltiades slowly leaned forward and looked towards the ferret's nervous eyes.

"Do not let me catch you doing this again. Do I make myself clear?"

Sweat dripped down the ferret's snout, "Yes General Miltiades."

The mouse leaned back on his chair and relaxed.

"Now, since we have finished our little conversation here," Miltiades shifted weight and placed his hands behind his head, "Let me explain why I called you here in the first place, as you were not present at our meeting back at the King's castle." He placed extra stress on the word "present".

Ensis's ears perked up attentively, looking back at the mouse general.

"You have heard of Martin's legendary sword?" Miltiades asked, smiling.

"I have heard about the myth." The ferret responded.

"It's not a myth." The general said flatly, "Why do you think we are here in the first place?" Miltiades crossed his arms.

Ensis looked down at his feet, "With the amount of force the king have sent, then it must be real."

"Good, you're catching on."

"But why such a large army for a single sword?" The ferret asked, now realizing the purpose of the mission.

"It's not just a simple sword. It was a sword forged with steel that fell from the heavens." Miltiades drew his point in the air.

"Surely you cannot believe this!" Ensis protested.

"The king's great ancestors fought in an army led by the legendary Cluny the Scourge. He saw it with his own eyes before Cluny was slain by the beast who welded it. His ancestor and his surviving friends fled to the east when Cluny's army disintegrated." The general looked up at Ensis, expecting him to remember all that, "The event has been recorded from generations to generations of his kin and his followers."

"But that was thousands of seasons ago! Such information can be changed in such large stretch of time!"

"I would like to agree with you there," Miltiades shook his head, "But if the king is willing to send almost all his army this far out, then it must be true."

"But for one sword?"

"We are here not just the sword but the fabled celestial rock that befell here as well. Well over half of all cargo ships from his royal navy are docked here as of now."

"Now that you mentioned it," Ensis looked outside the tent, "I do notice a lot more cargo ships were sent here than usual."

"Observant."

"But how will we know we have the actual metal?"

"This is where our skilled squirrel alchemist comes in," the mouse pointed at one of many ships docked on the beach, "Rhiza will need a relatively small sample from Martin's sword to confirm the correct color, appearance, and properties. Once we have the information, we can start extracting the material."

"And do we know the location of this celestial rock?" Ensis continued to ask.

"No," Miltiades said, grinning from ear to ear, "But I'm sure the records at Salamandastron do."

* * *

The light in the woods vanished as fast as it has appeared. No living animal were there, as they fled the area in total fear. Five beasts in strange grey clothes appeared on the ground from what used to be nothing. Small metal contraptions were scattered haphazardly around the site, completely artificial and uncompromisingly alien. One of them stirred.

Hans Schmidt groaned, clutching his teeth. A ferocious headache pounded against his head. His entire body ached with pain.

_I hadn't had this much pain ever since the last time I drank with my friends._ He mind exploded with agony.

He heard a chorus of leaves rustling in the wind. It almost felt soothing, breathing fresh air, untainted by remains of gunpowder and blood. The morning sun slowly blanketed his body with warmth. For once in his life, he could just lay back and relax.

Wait.

Fresh air?

Leaves?

Warmth?

Schmidt shot up in panic. He stared in awe at the forest surrounding him. The crumbling city of Stalingrad had all but disappeared. The dreaded Russian winter vanished without a trace. Ludwig slowly stood up, clutching his stomach.

_This must be heaven. It has to be._ He thought to himself.

He took a deep breath one again. Never in his life had he breathed air so crisp with purity. He slowly walked forward, gazing at the rising horizon. As he took another step, he felt something hit his food. Ludwig looked down to see an MP-40. But that was not what that caught his attention. Schmidt looked in horror at his small digitigrades. No wonder he felt shorter than usual. He stumbled backwards, his enormous eyes staring at what used to be his legs. Schmidt held up his hand, only to see a giant rodent paw staring right back him. He was shaking uncontrollably. Ludwig heard more moans behind him. He looked back to see four enormous mice in Wehrmacht uniform lying on the dirt unconscious.

_They couldn't possibly be my tank crewmen, could they?_ He thought grimly.

Schmidt heard the voice of Karl muttering softly. He saw one mouse in uniform shivering in the dirt.

"Mama, help me. What does it hurt so much? Help me please." He whimpered.

Schmidt retrieved the MP-40 from his feet and slung it across his body. Leaves crushing beneath his footstep, he shook the large mouse presumably to be Karl.

"Hey, are you alright Karl?"

"Oberfeldwebel Schmidt?" Karl asked.

He slowly opened his eyes, only to jump back in fright.

"Shit!" Karl yelped in fear.

His yell woke up the others, making the exact same reaction as Karl did. They all crawled away from Hans, only to realize they were too transformed into something entirely different.

"Lick me in the ass! What happened to me?" Ernst yelled, patting around his new body.

"What's going on?" Karl looked around in panic, "Where are we?"

Schmidt spoke as he patted his shoulder, "Relax, Gefreiteren, we are safe for now."

"Schmi- Oberfeldwebel Schmidt?" Karl stared at him, "Is that really you?"

"Can you not recognize your own commander's voice?" Schmidt asked, though he knew it's perfectly reasonable for Karl to ask such a question being he's a giant mouse. Everyone else began to gain their footing and surrounding. Their eyes went wide with wonder at such a change in scenery. Gone was the dreary Russian winter; the warm sunlight of summer greeted them instead.

Behind him, a bush rustled violently, revealing five more mice in uniform. Only this time Hans can recognize them all too well. One of them spoke in surprise.

"Боже мой."


	3. Chapter 2: Gatherings

Chapter Two: Gatherings

MisterKhact

The summer sun rose greatly above the woods of Mossflower. The wind blew gently and brushed softly against the treetops. It all seemed calm from above, serene and beautiful. However it was all eerily silent, barring the occasional batch of leaves tumbling across the ground. Birds weren't seen for miles out as they scattered long before when the shockwave erupted. It originated from a spot in the woods where trees were seemingly bent backwards. When the explosion lashed out, it did not expel flame or shrapnel. Instead, there was only a blink of light and only a wave of pure air and wind expanded from the center outwards. It looked like a bubble of made of air and mist. When seen with the eyes of a bird, those tree trunks were almost ripped outward, creating an image akin to a crude sunflower.

At the middle of the clearing stood a group of tense individuals, their weapons at the ready and their minds contorted with fear and confusion. Both the Germans and Russians were rooted to the ground; their eyes remained in deadlock. Their physical appearance may change, but their nationality hadn't.

No more were they all human; they were all bipedal giant mice of some kind. Their rodent faces wore an expression of speechlessness; their brains gripped with shock. Time was at an absolute standstill for them, as if everything else around them moved incredibly slowly. Both parties still held a death grip on their weapons. They were unsure of what to do, but are unwilling to part from their only forms of defense.

Cautiously, a mouse dressed in a dirty beige brown uniform, asked his partner by nudging him with his arm. He was still not used to these rodent mouths he was force to talk through.

"Серёжа," his voice was barely above a whisper, "Ты думаешь что они немци….были немцами?" He asked, his voice shaking.

"Не знаю," the other Russian mice known as Sergei rubbed his head in confusion, "Я не знаю."

Hans Schmidt's muscle tensed in fear and confusion. If the Russians were still truly hostile to him and his crew, they would have shot them the first chance they get, mouse or not. Yet they hadn't. They were just as confused as he and his crew were. Schmidt's mind raced with decisions; an icy chill flowed down his spine. He darted his eyes around the Russians, possibly contemplating with the same thoughts as he.

_Now's not the time to start shooting each other wantonly when there's other things to consider._ Schmidt thought, darting his eyes around the bent trees and the dirt ground. He was still trying to comprehend how they got here in the first place. How did they transform into something else entirely not human. Schmidt's mind started to hurt, throbbing in his skull with each passing second. If they were truly stuck on another world, they must stick together and survive. Peace between each other is necessary for survival and that was something what Schmidt was aiming for.

He cautiously moved his hand away from the MP40, letting it drop to his legs as a gesture of good will. The Russian mice were first startled, prepping their weapons to attack. They fully expected Schmidt to fire back at them. But the Russians saw what his true intentions were and hesitantly lowered their barrels, relaxing their grips. Hans' heart pounded ferociously, his sweat profusely dripping from his forehead. This was a tense moment for everyone. One small mistake could turn a friendly cease fire into an all out firefight. Behind Hans, Hermann spoke softly.

"Sir, do you think it's a goo-"

One of the Russian mice jumped at his voice, his heart leaping out of his chest. In a quick motion, the panicked Russian raised his submachine gun to fire at Hermann. By instinct, Hans' crewmen snatched German weapons scattered around the ground. One MP40 and two Parabellum Lugers were pointed at the Russian's general direction. Sensing a disaster looming over them, the Russians quickly reacted to see that it wouldn't happen.

"Нет!" Sergei shoved the gun towards the ground, "Дима! Блядь! Что ты делаешь?"

Dmitry Antonov darted his eyes between Sergei and his gun in sudden panic and confusion. He said nothing as he humbly lowered his head and his weapon.

Schmidt glanced towards his used to be human crew members.

"Men, lower your weapons."

"Why? He-" Hermann protested.

"Just do it!" Schmidt snapped sternly.

One by one, the Germans lowered their firearms, trading glances with each other. Karl hesitated at first, but slowly lowered his barrel towards the ground. His eyes were switching from Schmidt to the Russians, showing obvious concern over such action. Schmidt's heart slowly crawled back into his ribcage. A disaster was nearly averted, thanks to the actions of Sergei.

The wind blew above the trees; the leaves rustling amidst the silence. Both sides were unsure how to react to such drastic change. One moment, they fought ferociously at each other in the cold ruined city of Stalingrad. Now, they stood in a forest untouched by war. Communication will be difficult as Schmidt only knew a handful of Russian words. Unfortunately, he forgot most of them by the time his division reached the outskirts of Stalingrad. He just hoped that he could remember enough to call for a cease fire between his men and the Russians. Standing straight, Hans prepared to address the one known as Sergei.

"Сейчас," Schmidt started to say, "Не огонь." He raised his paws away from his gun.

"Что?" Sergei said, confused with his intentions.

"Мы не стреляем." Schmidt said slowly. He didn't even know if it was grammatically correct.

Sergei looked at him with an arched eyebrow. Relaxing, he let his PPSH41 drop to his legs, both of his hands free of his weapons. His fellow Russians looked at each other, before slowly lowering their guns as well. Schmidt set his MP 40 on the ground. He stepped towards them, his paw reaching out in a gesture of a handshake.

"Сейчас," He addressed towards Sergei, "Друзья."

"Мне зовут Ханс Шмидт." Schmidt pointed at himself, then at his crew, "Здесь мой...," he tried to remember the word for his crew members, "uh...экипаж."

Sergei stepped out of the bush, leaving his submachine gun back behind the bushes. He reached out his paw. At this moment, both Sergei and Schmidt shook their hands. Their grip was strong and sturdy. An agreement has been settled without uttering a single word. There will no longer be enemies between them. Hostility will never exist so long they are stranded on this world. The rest of the Russians stepped out of the bushes with their weapons relaxed at their hips; one of them was carrying Sergei's weapon.

"Сергей Иванов," Sergei addressed himself to the German mouse.

Satisfied Schmidt turned towards his crew members.

"You can relax men," he smiled, "They are no longer a threat to us."

Only one dared to cut the silence.

"But sir, they're Russians!" Karl yelled, expressing his displeasure with the officer's friendliness towards the Russians.

Schmidt' face turned from genuine happiness to one of anger.

"We're not on Earth anymore if you haven't noticed." He said flatly, "Look around you," gesturing with his arms, "For God's sakes, look at all of us!"

"But the Führer said-" Karl stuttered.

Hans sneered when he said Germany's "leader".

"Damn Hitler and his stupid master race notion!" Schmidt jabbed his finger at Karl, "I serve the Wehrmacht only for our homeland."

Karl was shocked how his own superior officer treated the name of Adolf Hitler.

"That's treason!" He blurted out.

"And what of it Gefreiteren?"Schmidt barked, "The war already lost when Hitler announced his attack on Russia. He may have brought back the economy from the First World War, but his mind has gone too far off the deep end by the second. His ridiculous master race ideology and Jew extermination project to name a few. It will soon become a horrendous blight upon the history of Germany!"

The Russians trade glances with each other as they watched Hans shouting at one of his own.

Karl said nothing as he thought on those words, not knowing what to say further. Everything Schmidt seemed right, but parts of his brain Karl learned from Hitler's speeches were screaming right back him. He sat down on the nearest rock and burrowed his head onto his hands. As he saw this, Hans' anger slowly drained away from him; replaced with empathy.

"You are still young, and you look for someone to look up to since you left your parents to join the Wehrmacht. I can understand that," Schmidt continued in a softer tone of voice, "But sometimes the truth can be cruel. Hitler is not a good man."

Schmidt now looked at his remaining crew members. They looked depressed like a lost child in a forgotten forest; their morale being drained from their bodies. They were in a new place without any connection to modern civilization, never seeing their family or friends again. Schmidt's mind twinged with regret seeing that he can't do anything to ease their pain. He realized he may never see his own family again. He looked down at his digitigrades, never getting used to such an alien body. Schmidt cranked his head towards the Russians. They conversed in a low tone of voice; their faces wore an expression of obvious sadness. Different world or not, he can't just sit back with defeat. Hans looked up and began to speak to his crewmembers.

"Men," he said, trying to sound confident, "I don't know where we are or how we became giant mice," He pointed at himself and at the Russians.

"Damn right we are," Ernst remarked; his face was worn with frustration.

"But we can't sit around in defeat," Schmidt ignored him, "We may not be human anymore, but we are still Germans by heart and by mind."

He continued, gathering their attentions.

"Perhaps a portal will open somewhere that will take us back to Earth. We can return back to human civilization, friends, and most of all, our family. We won't be able to accomplish that when we continue to sulk around in defeat in God knows where."

A surge of hope flowed through his crew. Now they have a goal they could achieve. A goal with a miniscule amount of success, but it's still something to grab on to.

Schmidt gathered his MP 40 and its magazines from the ground, dusting off any dirt on it, "Get up. We're moving."

"But where will we go?" Hermann asked.

"Anywhere but here," Schmidt pointed at the awkwardly bent trees, "Now let's get going."

The Oberfeldwebel Schmidt began to walk north of the woods, gesturing with his paws at Sergei to follow. Sergei nodded and turned to his comrades.

"Давай. За мной." He waved with his paws.

* * *

Time ran slowly and steadily as the group of foreign mice trekked through the dense vegetation of Mossflower Woods. Ivy grew almost everywhere, around the trees and along the ground. With no machete in paw, the group will have to walk around any thick thorny bushes encountered along the way. Sergei, wiping sweat from his furry forehead, took care to avoid stepping on anything that can injure his rodent foot. Mikhail Izmaylov followed closely behind him. He kept an eye out for anything hostile within his sights.

"I'm never getting used to this mouse body." Mikhail muttered under his breath, "I wish I had a bottle of vodka in hand."

Sergei's round ears twitched.

"We all have to get used to whatever we became. Whining will do you no good." He stated, "I'd say adapt to your new body while we figure out how to get out of this mess."

"Gee, Seryozha, I think you enjoy being a mouse." Mikhail smirked.

"You're hilarious," Sergei grunted.

Grigori Kuznetsov piped up behind them, brushing away leaves from his legs.

"Seryozha, are you sure we able to trust these Germans?"

"You have any other alternative?" Sergei replied, "We're in an entirely different world, separated from human civilization. I'm sure the Germans are pretty confused about all as are we."

"They could be leading us into a trap."

"Idiot," Sergei sneered, "What trap? A big mouse trap? Maybe put a little bit of cheese on it too?"

"Ahhh don't listen to him, Grisha. I think his brain grew small and shriveled up when he turned into a roden-"

Sergei's fist met Mikhail's grin with a wet crunch. He fell down in a heap, clutching his jaw in complete agony. He rolled around in the dirt and struggled not to whine in pain. Sergei stood over him and dragged him up to his feet. He brought Mikhail towards his face and stared deep into his eyes.

"That was a light one. Next time I won't be so soft." He cracked his knuckles.

Sergei pushed the injured mouse back on the ground. He looked ahead and saw Hans signaling everyone to crouch down.

"We've got an encounter."

Schmidt placed his fingers at his mouth as he silently went into prone position. Everyone else did the same.

"Shh. I hear things," he said in his German accented Russian.

Mikhail kept quiet, biting his lips to sooth the pain.

Both the Germans and Russians huddled down in the bushes. Sure enough, three beings walked across their point of view. It seems things will just keep getting stranger. There were two large weasels and a rat in iron medieval armor. The mice gawked at them in total shock, but still kept their silence. They were keen on what they were. The three beasts continued their path south of the woods, fully unaware of beasts observing them.

"I think I heard it this way," the weasel said, rubbing his ears, "My ears are still achin'."

"No, no, no, I think I heard it over ther'," the rat pointed with his rusty sword towards the west, "See how thos' birds are flyin'?"

"I think you're eyes and your ears are broken," said the other weasel, "Thos' birds are flying north. We're goin' the right way."

The Germans and Russians never expected the creatures of this world to speak English, let alone with a British accent. Of course, when you turn into a mouse, such a thing would no longer surprise you. All their eyes still tracked the three beast's movements. They moved without grace as their iron armor clanked around their bodies.

"Sie sprechen Englisch?" Ernst whispered, "Ich wusste nicht, dass hatten die Tommys eine-"

"Shh!" Schmidt smacked him on the head.

One of the ferret's ears perked up.

"Eh?" He cranked his head behind him, "Did ya hear that?"

"Hear what, ya pansy?" The rat retorted.

"I swear I heard som' beast behind me," He said, squinting his eyes at some bushes a few paces away.

"Feh," the other ferret waved his hands, "You're just hearin' things again. Looks like you and the rat have somethin' in common, eh?"

"Oh shut up befor' I lop yer head off."

Realizing something, Sergei silently crawled towards Schmidt. He took care not to cause too much noise that could attract their attention.

"Psst." Sergei whispered, covering his mouth with his paw. His voice was almost as quiet as a breath.

Hans rotated his eyeballs towards him. Sergei continued to talk.

"Do you think the British or Americans were teleported here the same as we did?"

Schmidt looked back towards the three beasts, curling his lips in thought.

"I do not know." Schmidt contemplated, "Maybe."

"Do you know English?"

"No," Schmidt shook his head.

Sergei blew through his wet nostrils in frustration.

"Well then, I'll ask them politely."

Sergei never actually had any formal education about the English language. He learned Basic English from booklets he bought from a universal store. Sergei could speak basic greetings and phrases after some practice, but it was hardly enough if he were to converse with a native speaker. It was when the war started when he started to pick up some more vocabulary. Manuals in American English began to flood into Red Army during the Lend-Lease Act. It was then he learned much more about the language, especially when some Americans scribbled words and notes along the sides of the pages.

Sergei stood up from the brushes, calling for the three beasts.

"Hey!" He waved his arms, "You British or American?"

They all jumped from a sudden heavy voice behind them. Turning around almost instantly, the beasts saw a mouse in brown clothing standing above the exact bushes the ferret looked over. They traded glances with each other, arching their eyebrows in confusion.

"I knew I heard somethin'! There's my proof!" The ferret pointed at him triumphantly.

"What's a British?" The other ferret asked, tilting his head.

"I talk to you! You British or American?" The strange mouse yelled again.

"What is he goin' on about?" The rat asked, nudging his partner.

"I think the beast's gone mad."

"He sounds like a shrew, but he's a mouse."

"What are we standing here yapping our gobs about for? Let's riffle his pockets!"

"Right. Come on," the ferret stepped forward, brandishing his sword, "This should be an easy one to rob."

"No! No attack! We Russki!" the strange mouse yelled again. The three beasts did not halt their advance. The mouse continued to stand there, hoping they would come to their senses. The weasels and the rat continued to close in on him; their swords drawn and ready to lash out.

"He's just standin' there!" One of the weasels smiled, "This might be the easiest robbery yet!"

The other ferret stopped in his tracks, unsure of such an easy prey.

"I think it's a trap." He narrowed his eyes.

"Your loss. You won't get our loot."

"Stoy!" The mouse yelled, waving his hands to halt the assault, "Stop! Stop!"

The beasts ignored his orders, swinging their swords for intimidation with a crooked grin on their faces. Unsatisfied, the mouse looked down into the bushes and spoke.

"Ханс, стреляй крысу и хорька. Предоставь другого хорька мне."

"What's he saying now?"

"Don't kn-"

The staccato of thunder erupted from the bushes, striking one ferret and one rat with devastating effects. Deep gaping holes appeared on the back of their armor, hurling their bodies backward. They both fell to the ground without a sound from their throats. The other ferret jumped in pure fright with his eyes wider than the moon.

"Wha?"

The beast stood in pure shock, unable to move his legs. He watched as nine other mice emerged from the same exact bushes, one half wearing those brown garments, the other wearing gray. One mouse pointed at him and shouted.

"Männer! Greift ihn jetzt!"

The mice in gray uniforms rushed out, their metal and wooden clubs at the ready. The last thing the ferret saw was a wooden buttstock to the face.


	4. Chapter 3: Information

Chapter Three: Information

The sun slowly dipped to the horizon, turning the sky from heavenly blue to soothing orange and yellow. The reflections of the sun reflected upon the surface of the sea, gleaming out like shards of glass. The camp was mostly silent, punctuated by occasional echoes of clashing swords and singing beasts. Several at the outskirts practiced their march against their drumbeats. It was a rough start, but once they synchronized, they all moved together like an advancing column of steel golems. Everybeast made haste to prepare their supplies and sharpen their weapons, ensuring that their long trek to Mossflower would go flawlessly. Although no official orders were given out to deploy deeper into Mossflower, the army felt it in their guts. After all, they did serve under the general's command for well over a decade. They knew his ways.

Unlike previous campaigns, they were thousands of miles away from their homeland, separated by a vast ocean that stretches beyond eternity. The journey towards Mossflower took ten long months of rough seas and violent storms; battling scurvy and boredom along the way. Dozens upon dozens of wooden ships were anchored along the shores of the Eastern Sea, gently rocking back and forth against the waves like a rhythmic beat. The distinctive flag of blue and gold waved flauntingly in the air; the sign of their absolute power and might. Within the camp stood a large decorated tent, decorated by dozens of their respectful flags. Two ferret guards stood tall like living stone; the elite wore a steel cuirass of polished quality and brandished halberds, sharpened to less than a width of a hair. Miltiades stayed in his tent for the duration of the entire day, carefully planning his next move of deployment. Twiddling his quill between his fingers, he drew numerous lines across the map, using red ink harvested from local berries on this land. He furrowed his brow and scratched furiously at his head as he struggled to find a viable strategy. The gentle breeze blew particles into the tent, forcing Miltiades to brush off dust from his highly decorated blue uniform. On occasion, he glanced at his full set of steel armor at the corner of the tent and faintly smiled. It was finely crafted for a beast like him. No beast managed to pierce through its protective plates when he wore it onwards to battle. Neither spears nor swords could damage its polished surface. He looked back on his map, now strewn about with lines and circles.

_So far, everything has gone well without a hitch._ Miltiades cheerily thought. No sooner did he frown, taking care not to tempt the thinly veiled wire that is fate.

Redwall abbey is of no real obstacle, as its inhabitances were of very peaceful beasts. They have never known war for much of their entire lives and dwell in ignorance within the protective walls of their precious abbey. Such beasts should be easy to deceive. But Miltiades dismissed such thought as fool's optimism. Something will eventually go wrong. Such is life; the manipulative mistress. The abbey was a small place and their numbers are few. It won't be long before somebeast discovers the sword missing. They will alert Salamandastron as is their only source of military capability within the reaches of Mossflower.

_Being put on high alert could certainly make retrieving those records that much harder._

Miltiades burrowed his face on his hands before withdrawing his arms.

_Salamandastron. Oh how even the name sends chills down my spine. Only an army of complete deranged belligerent idiots would fight them head on. And only a complete deranged belligerent idiot with an arrow through his head would fight against the infamous bloodthirsty badger himself._

Such a well trained army of hares will be far more difficult an obstacle to overcome. Their name escapes his memory.

_What was their name again? _Miltiades tapped his head, struggling to remember such crucial information.

_Ah, yes. The Long Patrol._

For most of his career, Miltiades dealt with the troublesome rebels after the fall of their rivaling empire. This, however, was different. Never before had he dealt with a badger before. These lumbering beasts were rare on the land they ruled, but it seems not so here. Only a complete novice would advance their army to the gates of their fortress.

_No, this operation needs stealth. I need that damned record. _His memory of names is poor and struggled to find a candidate.

_But once they know of its disappearance, _Miltiades grimly thought,_ I'd have an angry swarm of hares and one bloodthirsty badger who all want my head on a platter. They would surely come to Redwall's aid when they learn of my intentions. They aren't stupid._

The mouse sat there for a moment, before slapping his forehead for overlooking such an obvious flaw.

_Of course! Of course! How can I forget about their outright bigotry towards anything "vermin-like"? Such attitudes fell well out of social values for the past few hundred years. I could just send a simple otter in and they could never tell the difference! _

Miltiades chuckled to himself.

"Fools," he muttered to himself, "You may have a competent army but you all have a mind stuck in cultures of the past."

The mouse general shook his head as he left the chair to do a quick back stretch. He walked towards the corner of the tent, where he placed all his personal supplies. He snatched a flask of wine and took a few swigs. Satiated, he sat back down on his chair, bringing along his drink. Reaching for his inner pockets, he took out a small booklet of his personal favorites. Filled with various beasts of great capabilities, so long they were loyal under his command. He scanned through the pages, sliding his finger across dozens of names. He needs not just a competent thief; he needs a thief of distinguishable abilities. Ensis was a glory seeker. He would rather come face to face with twenty hares than be stealthy. Besides he was a "vermin" and the Long Patrol would cut him down at first sight. His finger stopped at the middle of the page.

That otter, Velox, is one slippery fellow. Normally, soldiers without the blood of a Noble are unable to join the elite ranks. This otter was born from a commoner; no royal heritage. To many, he was just another filthy peasant under their banner. Velox, however was cunning. So cunning, that he managed to slip into the ranks of elites and fought with them for years. Once caught, Miltiades had courtesy to save the otter from the gallows. He needed a beast who can spy and Velox was the perfect candidate. For years, he has served under his command without question. Perhaps sending him to Salamandastron can prove himself, not to him, but to their kingdom as the greatest spy who ever lived. That accursed badger and the Long Patrol will never suspect a thing long after Velox has escaped with the location of the celestial rock. Tiny footsteps interrupted Miltiades thoughts as he looked up to see who came to visit him.

"General, all supplies have been unloaded from the ship." The same rat messenger he sent out earlier stood before him, saluting in a presence of a superior officer.

"Good. We leave tomorrow at dawn," Miltiades gestured with his quill, "Tell it to all captains of each battalion. I want no delay."

"Yes General Miltiades." The rat saluted once again.

"Oh," He held out his hand, "And can you please fetch me that otter Velox?"

Yes General Miltiades." The rat saluted once more before taking off into the distance.

Minutes passed by without the appearance of that otter, but the mouse can be patient. Miltiades waited in his chair and played with his quill. He heard rapid pawsteps outside and sat straight up. He saw a black tricorne with two eagle feathers slowly appear from the edge of the grass. He then saw the otter himself with his dark blue coat, nowhere near as elaborate as Miltiades' gold-trimmed suit. His natural fur is of deep dark brown. He swam recently as his fur shined like polished wax with each passing movement.

"Let him in." The mouse told to his elite guards outside.

They complied; the otter trotted in the tent without any resistance.

"General, what can this humble otter do for you?" Velox said, panting as he bowed.

Miltiades only wanted to know of his competence.

"Salamandastron. Can you do it?" He asked.

"You're asking me to sneak into Slamandastron? _The_ Salamandastron? The badger included?" Velox raised an eyebrow, his voice didn't shake.

"So you know of them," Miltiades continued, if not a little surprised, "And it sounds like you are eager to meet them."

"If I'm not fightin them of course!" The otter excitedly replied, "But surely you want me to fetch something for ya. You wouldn't send a beast on his lonesome just to meet some harden hares and a bloodlust badger."

"I want you to infiltrate their fortress. Find where they keep their records." Miltiades looked at the otter keenly, "Seek out any information about the metal from Martin's legendary sword." The mouse shifted in his seat.

Velox frowned.

"I thought only a skilled blacksmith badger could do that."

"We'll see about that once we have the rock."

"What if I was met with spears pointin at my head?"

"You won't. I guarantee that." Miltiades smiled.

"Why?"

"You ask many questions for a low rank." The mouse chuckled, "They won't attack you because you're an otter. The Long Patrol may be fierce fighters, but their social values are a bit… backwards."

"Haw! They still believe that good beast and evil vermin nonsense?"

"Evidently they do, and that puts you in a great advantage."

"Oh this is golden!" Velox slapped his knee, "I should be in and out in a jiffy!"

"Good. Remember, I don't want you drunk off your bottom when you meet the Long Patrol. I will brief you again when we're there. You're dismissed." Miltiades waved him off.

"I suppose I need to make up a good sob story," Velox chuckled as he said to himself, and left the tent.

* * *

Hans Schmidt rubbed his eyebrows tiredly. The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into starlit darkness. A light breeze rustled the trees above, shaking leaves down from the branches. A gust of wind flew past Schmidt's ears, unnerving him with an eerie howl.

_This place is starting to get to me. _His voice echoed in his head.

The dead bodies were stripped naked and were dragged somewhere far for otherworldly predators to follow. Otto and Herman backtracked towards their group, rubbing away the blood marks with their feet. The armors, salvaged from those bodies, were now worn by Sergey and Schmidt; dried blood and a few bullet holes decorating the crude iron cuirass. Ernst contemplated their new apparel.

"Schmidt, nice armor you have there. I'm sure the holes will protect you from swords and axes."

"I thought I told you drag those bodies somewhere else! Get to it!"

The ferret left alive sat on the ground, his eyes darting around in fear. His hands were tied together from clothing off of the dead "bandits". He looked as if he was about to cry. Schmidt learned of the names of the other Russian. The tall in stature was Mikahil. The shorter one, about the same height as Töpfer, was Dmitri. If Schmidt would make a hazard guess, he would say Dmitri was the Russian counterpart of Töpfer, seeing that Töpfer argued with him as much as they did. The others were Pyotr and Grigori; too busy counting their bullets than anything else. They were same size, almost like twins. Sergey Ivanov stood nearby, trying to wipe off grit and dirt of his precious submachine gun with his paws. Within the past hours, he took his time trying to teach Schmidt more Russian words. While overhearing Sergey's friends, Schmidt gained a reasonable vocabulary for him to work on. He frowned. He still wasn't speaking as well as he ought to. He can never get used to the Russian rules of grammar.

Sergey felt uncomfortable in his new armor. He felt like one of those assault engineers, with their steel bib strapped on their chests. But instead of a soviet made steel breastplate, he wore a rusty and bloodied iron cuirass. The breeze still blew through the bullet holes left by their guns. Pacing around the ferret long enough, Sergey looked up at Schmidt and trotted towards him.

"Hans, we should start interrogating him. It's quickly getting dark." Sergey nudged his arm.

"Why not earlier?" Schmidt questioned, "Why wait?"

"I'm still trying to warp my head around the whole mess we're in," Sergey rubbed the back of his head. He missed his helmet. Sergey exhaled, "It takes time for all of us to adjust."

"Well, are you going to interrogate him now?" Schmidt inquired, before lightly kicking leaves on the ground, "I can't speak English."

"Oh, right," Sergey curled his lips, then chuckled, "I should teach you some later when we're out of this mess."

"You teach me swear words as formal greetings, I feed your head to wolves." Schmidt rubbed his paws together to keep them warm, "If there are wolves here." He looked around the trees.

"Now why would you accuse me of doing such a thing friend?" Sergey laughed, patting Schmidt on the shoulder, "I hardly know English swear words myself!"

"Do you?" Schmidt smirked.

The Russian shrugged, doing a light dance with his head as well. Making way to the ferret, he forcefully changed his mood for one that suits interrogation. Sergey slowly paced around the tied down beast, dried leaves crushing with each passing step. His paws held tight on his PPSH-41, ready to fire if he'd ever tried to escape or attack. From what he could tell, that's not happening anytime soon.

"Listen!" He ordered the ferret. Sergey made sure his weapon was held out for him to gawk at.

"Please don't kill me! I swear I leave if you'd just let me go!" He cried out, squirming around on the dirt like worm. It was still hopeless. The knot around his hands was tightly secured.

The Russian ignored his pleas but found his little dance a little amusing. He couldn't help but let out a few chuckles. He watched as the ferret got himself covered in dirt and leaves, sticking to him like flies to a bonfire.

"You lie. We hit. Understand?" Sergey said firmly.

"Yes, yes, just don't hurt me please," the ferret halted his movement and spilled his words out in quick secession.

Satisfied with his rather quick cooperation, Sergey started with their location.

"Where are we?" He asked, keeping a straight face.

"What?" Even the ferret found the question unbelievable. Everybeast should know this by birth.

"Я сказ- I said where are we?" Sergey raised his buttstock of his rifle to strike.

"Mossflower!" The ferret cried out.

Sergey lowered his weapon and eyed him suspiciously. He didn't recognize this name in any geography books. But then again, this is a giant talking animal in the land of possibly more giant talking animals. Stumped, he looked at his own men for clues about their whereabouts.

"You guys know of a place called Mossflower?" He asked.

His men, or rather mice, looked strangely at Sergey.

"We're from Earth, not something from The White Duck." Mikhail replied, scratching his furry cheeks.

"But the story has people in it." Pyotr retorted.

"Well, maybe we'll find some in this place! I don't know! Maybe we'll find a witch too!" Mikhail raised his arms in frustration.

"I hope it's not a squirrel," Grigori added, "One tried to gnaw on my leg once."

Leaves crunched besides them as two Germans returned from their little burial. Noticing that everyone was circling around the captured beast, Herman spoke to his buddy next to him in a joyful tone.

"Ohhh, Otto, Ich denke, dass werden diese Ivans das Frettchen essen," He paused for a moment and thought over his words, "Essen…hmm… Ist es essen oder fressen?"

"Be quiet!" Sergey barked out. Everyone fell quiet.

"What's goin on? What are they talkin about?" The ferret can't but be curious about the shrew like mice's strange tongue.

"You! Be silent!" The Russian raised his tone. The ferret slammed his yapping mouth shut, just as quickly as he blinked.

"You in army?" Sergey gestured with his hands.

"We're just simple beasts trying to survive out here." The ferret answered.

_Bandits then._ Sergey thought, looking at his own rusty armor they looted. The tied down beast continued.

"Nobeast would take us in. Not even Redwall Abbey!"

"Redwall…Abbey?" Sergei noticed the ferret's change of tone when he said the last two words. Sergei suspects a settlement of some kind, "What is Redwall Abbey?" He wanted to know more about this place.

"They say a place full of peaceful beasts who'd give shelter to beast like me. Turns out a lie. Never in me life have I seen angry beasts befor'. Called me "vermin". They chased me out into the woods, throwin stones and pebbles at me head." The ferret's voice sounded angrier with every breath. His eyes started to water.

Sergey bit his lips; he can't help but feel pity for him.

_Ugh, I'm starting to get soft. _He thought to himself.

"Vermin. What is it?" Sergey asked. He didn't know the word but to him, it sounded derogatory.

"Beasts like me are called vermin. Stoats, rats, weasels, ferrets are all vermin they say. Bigoted lot those Redwall beasts." The ferret scowled, looking away.

"And us? What are we?" Sergey gestured to himself and his group.

The ferret really wanted to know why the shrew like mouse asks such questions. But he did not complain or comment, fearing being beaten or worse, killed.

"Mice. You all are called "Goodbeasts". Not a vermin like me." He shook his head.

"Who were they? We killed."

"They weren't friends; part of a small group of bandits west from 'ere. I tagged along with them only a season ago, only because they have food and a place to sleep."

"They try attack us."

"And they like fightin'. I don't know them personally meself." The ferret answered back.

Sergey looked back at the Russians.

"Should I let him go?"

"If he can lead us to whatever this place is. He said the Red Ball right?" Mikhail stood the closest to their conversation, "Do we all have to learn how to dance?"

"It's Redwall, idiot," Sergey rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. We all got guns and pistols. What does he have? A butter knife?" Mikahil laughed, "I think we can handle him if he goes rogue."

Without saying another word, Sergey bent over behind the ferret's back. As he didn't speak Russian, he did not know of Sergey's intentions. Believing that he was about to stab him, the ferret naturally panicked.

"No! Please! Stop! I beg you!" The ferret squirmed around in complete fright.

And just like that, his bonds were cut loose. he looked at his paws in disbelief then at the group of mice in bewilderment.

"Thank ye! Thank ye! May your travels be graceful!" He was about to take off into the night when a loud voice boomed from behind him.

"Stoy!Stop!" Sergey yelled, pointing the barrel of his gun at him. The ferret froze right in his tracks. He didn't know what Sergey was holding but knew all too well of its power.

"You take us to this place. Redwall."

"But they'll attack me!"

"We talk to them." Sergei assured him.

He turned to inform Schmidt of the ferret's usefulness.

"Hans, please watch over him," Sergei pointed, "He'll be taking us to a settlement."

Schmidt took a quick look at the ferret, "I hope it's not an enemy camp, or an ambush."

"It's better than nothing," Sergey shrugged, "We're practically lost until we find some form of civilization, be it mouse or human."

The German examined the ferret closely before sighing, "I hope you're right."

Sergey gestured with his arms, "We'll leave straight away once we're all ready."

Schmidt nodded turned and gave orders to his men. With his MP 40, he kept his crosshairs on the ferret.

"Ich brauche dieses Frettchen lebend!" He barked out to his crewmembers.

"Wir habben uns ein neues Haustier! Können wir ihm Kunststücke unterrichten?"

"Ernst!" Schmidt yelled.

Turning away from them, Sergey walked back to his own men.

"Now we have a place to go to." He told them of their new goal.

Dmitri shared his doubts over their new "navigator".

"I think he's lying," he sneered, "He might be leading us into an ambush, or worse."

"Are you always this pessimistic?" Pyotr remarked. Sergei paid him no mind.

"So, Dima, you want to stay here and sleep on the dirt?" He asked Dmitri, "There's a nice spot underneath that tree over there," Sergei pointed his arm, "I'm sure the leaves will provide you plenty of warmth."

Dmitri didn't answer.

"I thought so," Sergei chuckled, checking his ammunition on his person, "From what Mikhail said before, we're stranded in a place just like the medieval ages, but with giant talking animals. I don't think they have weapons like ours," Sergei grinned, showing the wood and steel of his gun.

"That is until we run out of bullets. Then our guns would be over glorified clubs." Mikhail joked.

"I'll slap you if it wasn't a legitimate concern." Sergey frowned. Bullets were practically non-existent here and getting more would be outright impossible.

_Eventually, we'll all have to learn how to use swords and axes. We need to conserve our damn ammunition as best as possible._ Sergey grimly thought, looking at his submachine gun. It kept him safe for months within the ruins of Stalingrad. He would hate to part with it. Sergey then looked up at the sky, seeing a bright moon hanging over him.

"Come on, we need to leave now," Sergei told to everyone, "I don't know what's out in the woods at midnight, but I rather not find out the hard way."

They all nodded their heads, fearing for any nocturnal predators prowling the woods. They were new to this world, and knew nothing of wild creatures that thrive here.

Sergey went back to Schmidt and his men. It's crucial for them to find a place to stay immediately. He saw him standing over another German, Ernst if he recalled.

"Hans, are you all ready to move?" Sergey asked, glancing over the ferret held a few paces away.

" Yes. We are," Schmidt looked away from Ernst, who wasn't smiling, "But we need to know the ferret's name. We can call him."

Sergey facepalmed, "Oh, I forgot to ask for his name." He then waved at the ferret, their new-found navigator.

"You! What is your name?"

"Me?" The ferret pointed at himself, "My name is Afairn."

"A farm?" Sergey raised his eyebrows.

Afairn didn't argue with his captors.

"Well, apparently his name is farmland." Sergey told Schmidt the ferret's "name". Afairn's ears dipped low as he heard them snicker loudly.


End file.
